


you wrap your thoughts in works of art

by thedeathofhyacinth



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: 15 year old Harry, 17 year old louis, Canon Compliant, M/M, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-02
Updated: 2017-08-02
Packaged: 2018-12-10 02:28:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11682141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedeathofhyacinth/pseuds/thedeathofhyacinth
Summary: Louis meets and seduces a strange boy in a London Starbucks bathroom. Years later, they meet in another bathroom.





	you wrap your thoughts in works of art

**Author's Note:**

> so hey this is my first 1d fic on ao3? i used to write for the kink meme back in 2012 but other than that, i've never published any of my 1d fic. (: this was written in either 2013 or 2014 [i can't remember and there's no date?] and has been sitting on a usb drive since then. 
> 
> a warning beforehand that louis is 17 and harry is 15 in this so if that's Not Cool with you, you absolutely don't have to read this! and since there's no dialogue between them, there is zero kink negotiation! [of course, in real life, you should always chat with your partner about what's okay and what's not okay.] there's also no protection used in this fic which is definitely not something you should forget in real life, either!
> 
> basically this is fic, it's not real, you know the drill. please enjoy! <3

Subconsciously, Louis had been walking to the tone of his music. Left step on the G, right on the D/F sharp, left again on the A minor, right again on the C. Repeating over and over again as he counted the shift in tone, fingers slightly twitching to match where they would be placed on the fret of his guitar. Music flowed through him as nourishment, the words his feast as they filled his heart. 

Barely seventeen, wrapped in a scarf that he held tight against his throat, he hummed through his nose. The cold wind bit through his clothes and he shivered. The winter seemed a bit _harsher_ in London, denser in a way that didn't quite make sense. Maybe it was the tall buildings, the cobblestone streets, the general city atmosphere that was leaps and bounds different than Doncaster. He wasn't sure he enjoyed it, being much more the summer type. Besides, the cold air was _hell_ on his voice. He wanted to preserve it, mainly because he knew he would strain it that evening; there was a concert, The Script, and he planned on letting Danny O’Donoghue know just how much he loved them. 

A particularly harsh wind blew past him, rattling his knees together and breaking his steps. Being a perfectionist of the _highest_ degree, this threw Louis off-kilter. Frustrated, shaking his shaggy hair out of his face, he stopped in at the nearest familiar place- a Starbucks cafe. 

Though he was over 275 kilometres from home, alone in an _almost_ -foreign place, as soon as he stepped into the cafe, all of that disappeared. That was the beauty of franchises, Louis figured: they were all the same. A comforting, casual thing of wonder. 

Once inside, hairs back into place, snow dusted off his shoulders, disarming smile in place, he walked to the counter. The brunette behind the formica popped her gum at him, _smirked_ at his accent, but took his barked order with the precision of someone wasting their life away at a dead-end job. Louis knew that precision well and had always vowed to avoid that at all costs. He was not the type to fade away, to be ambivalent and allow life to whisk him here and there. Metaphorically, he took life by the balls and twisted. 

A small part [with the biggest job- mainly, keeping him safe while he was _over 275 kilometres away from safety_ ] of him realised that he had failed to accurately assess his surroundings when he walked in. Quietly, he panicked, eyes scanning as he pressed against the counter, waiting on his white chocolate latte. There was the bored brunette, two couples a little over his age who looked as if they were on a double date, the hip "nerds" that every town had that were sat on their laptops keeping up their blogs or whatever they normally did, an older lady reading a magazine on the couch, lots of teens on the bar, and a group in the corner. And oh... Louis' heart seemed to skip a beat as his eyes landed on a particularly gangly boy in the last group. 

It was almost ridiculous that "I’m Yours" started playing as he took in the awkward, pigeon-toed boy standing in the corner. Fate. Divine intervention, had he believed. 

There was something soothing in the flick of green eyes as the boy in the corner met Louis' eyes. As if he knew that Lou was enamoured already. As if something in their brains clicked. Trying not to flip his absolute shit, Louis smiled. A twitch of eyebrows, lips parting, shuffling of thighs together; the boy was caught. They knew immediately that something was going to happen. Maybe they each had their own ideas, maybe ones that weren't in line with what would actually come about. Maybe they thought they'd talk, maybe they thought they'd exchange mobile numbers. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. 

The boy looked younger than Louis, uncomfortable in his own skin the way everyone is during those formative years. He still had baby fat that clung to his cheekbones and hipbones; an enticing thought that sent a lightning bolt through Louis. Atop his head, above those shimmering green eyes was a crazy mop of curls. They fell into his face as he dipped his head, breaking their eye contact for a few seconds as he checked his phone. Probably texting a friend that some weirdo lad was checkin' him proper-like. He was probably scared, and instantly, Louis felt a pang of guilt. He may have been comfortable with himself, with his [ _gulp_ ] sexuality, but what if this boy wasn't? What if even [ _double gulp_ ], this curly-haired boy was _straight_? 

While Louis was pondering why he always did _this_ \- this whole encapsulate straight men to prove something himself- the boy met his eyes again. Once Louis was back out of his head, back into this game, he noticed the smirk on Curly’s face. 

In this game, a smirk was a concession. A smirk was a submission. Conquest. Interest. Whatever you wanted to call it, Curly had the look of a willing loser on his face. Could it have been that easy? Louis wasn't particularly dressed for the occasion; normally he'd wear his favourite shirt, tight pants, maybe that jumper that clung to his biceps and pectoral muscles the way that older men liked. All of that seemed superficially inane as he watched Curly flick his hair, eyes darting to his right- to the bathroom. If he hadn't been paying attention, he would have missed the silent call. 

On the other hand, he wouldn't have missed the barista shoving his latte at him, a frustrated growl on her red lips. He apologised, blaming it on his headphones as he took them off and stopped the steady beat. His eyes on the cardboard sleeve with the fake name [Kerry Atune] written on it, Louis realises he may have blown it. When he looked back up, the boy was gone. His heart fluttered, disappointment quickly settled between his ribs, and he tried not to look frantic as he searched the store. Curly couldn't have gone out the door without Louis noticing, surely. The quaint bell above the door made sure of that. He wasn't at the bar or on the couch or ordering a drink. But there wasn't anywhere else he cou-- 

Realisation hit him like a tonne of bricks. 

The bathroom. The very bathroom Curly had motioned to before the barista interrupted their silent conversation. " _Meet me in here_ ," his eyes had said as they dipped toward the doorway. Gulping down the latte, burning his tongue and the roof of his mouth so that yes, he'd know that this was real life, Louis made his way across the cafe toward the toilets. 

Twenty steps was all it took for him to reach the doorway, but in those twenty steps, his mind raced. Normally, he was cool and collected, confident in a way that no one else in his year was. He had no qualms about coming to London on his own, mulling about the city in all its danger and freedom. Even back home, with the men and women he met and indulged in, he had never questioned his popularity and charm. Something about this boy- maybe it was the shy look he had about him or the way his hands, with their sinfully long fingers, had fiddled with his phone in a moment of second-guessing- made him weak in the heart. 

But what was a new city without a new conquest? 

Slowly, as silently as he could manage without looking like a creep, he pushed open the door to the toilets. For a fleeting moment, it looked as if Louis was completely alone. Maybe he had misjudged the spark? 

A clearing of a throat, however, subtly breaks the silence and Louis is reassured that yes, this is exactly what was meant to happen. He hadn't misjudged anything, and suddenly felt incredibly silly to think that way. He was Louis Tomlinson, for fuck's sake! And what Louis Tomlinson wants, Louis Tomlinson gets... starting with a curly haired boy in a Starbucks in London. 

Straightening his back so his shoulders were squared and set, he took steps that gave his composure a slight tentative dent. Curly's shoes could be seen in the stall in the back corner of the bathroom, shuffling together and exuding an aura of "I've-never-done-this-before." Quaint, almost cute. Louis wasn't sure if he was nervous or if love at first sight was a real thing. 

His knuckles rapped against the plastic door, near the little metal lock that wasn't properly doing its job. As if on its own, the door gave way and Louis and his conquest were standing almost eye-level. Up close, Curly was even more striking, pink lips parted as he breathed like a mouse caught in a trap. Louis wondered if he'd really ever done this before- maybe in the back of a kiddy club with the lights low and skirts ‘round waists. Maybe never with a man, maybe never at all. He seemed so nervous, but so pliant. It didn't take but Louis' hand on his waist for his head to tilt. 

So _eager_. 

The only sound they dared to make was the wet slick of lips touching, tongues tracing as they melted together. Something in Louis lit up, hands fitting perfectly within the dip of Curly's hips. Had they met before? His senses said yes, _yes!_ , as those fingers tangled in his scarf, seemingly trying to pull him out of his skin. Long fingers, wide hands; they took up his whole upper arm as they squeezed and massaged. Everything was rough and inhuman- _godly_ \- but perfect. 

Louis was filled with the need to be closer to this conquest, as if teeth clacking wasn't enough to fill this void he had suddenly discovered. Without hesitation, his hands slid around from Curly's waist to his waist _band_. A choked sound echoed between them and Louis wasn't honestly sure who it came from. 

He got Curly’s pants unzipped rather easily, shoving downward unceremoniously, delighting in the sound of the sing-song medley of a metal belt hitting the floor. If either of them were trying to be incognito about this, it was getting horribly lost in translation. But that was part of the fun, of course. Knowing that at any moment, strangers [that were strange in the way the two of them weren’tt anymore] could walk in and see bare bones and flushed lips. It was enticing and thrilling, much in the way Louis felt enticed and thrilled at picking out Curly. Or being _picked out_ by Curly. 

Another sound, this one a lilt of need, roughened by vocal chords that weren't quite done growing. Snapping from fumbling with Curly's boxer-briefs, Louis' hands undid his scarf and transferred it around that delicious mouth. Wide eyes gazed back at Louis, glazed with the realisation that he was _enjoying_ this. Normally, Louis would take much better care of a lover he had bound, but seeing the boy locked up in his own lust, the animalistic side of Louis took over. He pinned the boy's wrists to the wall, watched him writhe, and grinned. 

The silent conversation between their eyes said something like 

_'don't move-'_

_'make me-'_

_'i think i'm falling in love with you shut up you spoiled twat'_

Curly just smiled around the silky material of the scarf and went almost lax beneath Louis' stubby nails. Nothing was ever meant to really hurt- that, Louis saved for after a long discussion about consent- but the way Curly's head flung back, scraping in a way that had to burn, made Louis dig in again. Hips bucked, searching for something to rut against, something that would take away the almost-pain of strain. Louis thoroughly enjoyed seeing his conquest in the throes of passion, watching the growing indulgent urge to take charge and consume. 

Louis was never the one to be consumed. 

And he thought about saying something- a teasing, yet kind sort of gesture because really, the boy was _beautiful_ \- but was caught off-guard as hands flexed and withdrew, never leaving their place on the wall. Such a good listener, he noted with pleasure flooding him. A treat, he decided, was just about due. Louis exercised precise patience, and reveled in holding power over others. As he watched Curly's hands continue their taut flexing, seeing the shallow crescent shapes dug into palms, he felt a hot rush of pleasure run through his abdomen. 

Something about this lad was amazing to him. Without knowing exactly why, he was changed. 

He slipped a palm around the boy's cheek, almost-gasping at the way they fit together, and leaned in to press his lips to the soft swell below those daring green eyes. So sweet, he knew; such a juxtaposition to the demanding way he made Curly plant his wrists to the wall. But that was what Louis was all about- it was far easier to beg for forgiveness than to ask for permission. 

Which was exactly what calculated his next move, a swift fall to the knees before his prize. He tried to portray a certain confidence as he shuffled material aside and carefully wrapped his fingers around the softest skin imaginable. A slight _huff_ echoed above him and he risked a glance upward to see Curly's eyes rolling back in his head. Everything happened better than Louis had ever imagined- he was suave and calculating, Curly was pliant and compatible and oh- _oh!_ \- the weight against Louis' tongue was _perfect_. 

Of course, Louis had his fair share of oral entertainments. Mostly, he was on the receiving end. However, he never tired of pleasing. Maybe he had a slight [obvious] oral fixation. He was always chitchatting or singing or rambling on even if there wasn't someone to listen. It wasn't very far-fetched to say that he enjoyed the bloody _hell_ out of giving a blowjob. 

And oh, how absolutely _stunning_ the lad looked, splayed against the wall as if he were trying to will himself through it. It really was something Louis himself had never understood- why lovers pressed back on bed or wall or whatever they were against in what seemed to be an attempt at escaping. Was he too good to be true? 

One could hope. 

Again there came the flittering thought of cooing, reaching out with words to reassure and taunt. But yet again he thought better of it. Why waste words- meaningless words- on something that went beyond the realm of human comprehension? The meeting, the instant _click_ , it was all too broad and too sudden for Louis to really grasp. He knew that something brought him here [and he would ponder for years later on it], but for the moment, he went back to concentrating on tracing the tip of his tongue along the thick vein on the underside of the lad's dick. 

Curly's fingers flexed rapidly, until they balled into fists. Louis noticed this change in demeanour out of the corner of his eyes, lips pursing and eyebrow arching. He didn't, however, have much time to think before those long fingers [really the only bony thing about the boy] tangled in his hair, urging Louis closer. Happily obliging, even _enjoying_ the sudden lax in the "rules," Louis opened his throat [ _thank you_ vocal lessons] and welcomed the beauty inside of him. 

Breath scratched at the underbelly of the scarf and Louis heard what could have been words that got jumbled on the way from brain to throat. And oh, he was absolutely positive- in _no way_ could his mind be changed- that the way that this gorgeous boy would say his name would be the _only_ way Louis would ever want his name to be uttered. He got a thrill from thinking about that; thinking that maybe this would lead somewhere and maybe they'd end up in a flat somewhere alone, exploring one another on their own terms, in their own bed, and not at a Starbucks in London. 

He didn't have much time to reflect on that thought however, as Curly's knuckles dug into the skin on his scalp. Louis almost protested until he realised that the boy was trying to give him a sign. The rippling muscles, cleverly hidden behind the cute pocket of baby fat on his hips, brought Louis back to the real world; he knew instantly what that meant. 

Curly was close. 

Most of the time, be it in "regular" life or no, Louis tried to maintain an air of composure. Nothing ruffled his feathers, he wasn't the type to get angry or upset or sad. He attempted to retain every ounce of positivity. He wanted to be nice and funny and _cool_. He knew he had control issues. 

But Curly completely losing it, panting and bucking, lewdly letting his thighs part and tremble, muffled only by the tight wad of fabric between his teeth, made Louis want to let loose and grab those curls and kiss hard and rough and maybe he was getting _too_ into this- it was just a bathroom tryst, after all. He'd had them before. He had to keep telling himself that this was just like the others, even if his body threatened to break free from his mind and prove him wrong. 

Sticky sweet tongue, rattled ribs, cramped thighs, and sharp breaths later, Louis had his forearms pressed to the wall on either side of his conquest. Curly’s eyes were glassy, staring into his own, and Louis knew that this was the _best_ decision he had ever, and would ever, make. 

Slowly, limbs heavy from nothing other than watching Curly get off, Louis unwrapped the scarf and put it back in place around his own neck. The cool, damp feeling of drool would normally turn his stomach, but he just smirked- it was a solid reminder of what he had just done, [as if the salty taste on the back of his tongue wasn't enough]. 

Heavy hands came to rest on Louis' hips, devouring the bird-like bones underneath him. The lad was younger, that much was clear, but so much about him was more developed, bigger than Louis knew he'd ever get. It wouldn't be long before this kid would pass him in height and bulk, baby fat giving way to lean muscles and a structured, almost Grecian look. Louis was sure that Curly would be the most handsome thing on two legs in a mere few years' time. 

As he leaned in, touching his forehead to wet curls plastered to his conquest's forehead, Louis silently wished that that somehow, some way, this feeling would stay with him. He felt better about himself than he had in years, felt talented and worthy and attractive. And he knew that once they left this bathroom, this sanctimonious place they decided upon, he'd never fly the way he was flying at that moment. 

They stayed that way, resting together in comfortable silence, for far longer than they thought possible. Louis knew that most of the time, things got awkward very quickly. But they were okay, content in their shared breaths. Every so often, Curly would lean his head back, tilting Louis so they could kiss for brief, stunning moments. 

It was Louis who removed himself first, reaching into his pocket for the slip of paper with his hotel directions written on it. His conquest's eyebrows wrinkled, eyes burning as he intently watched. Conveniently, Louis had everything he needed to pass along his number. It surprised him even has he carefully drew each number. He wondered if he was crazy. 

And if Curly was crazy enough to maybe call him one day. 

They shared a smile and Louis' breath hitched in his throat as he caught a glimpse of _dimples_. If there hadn't been a shared sense of _don't say a word don't ruin this beautiful illusion it will break the fragile glass bubble we've built around us_ , Louis would have broken down and cried. Perfection. He had, quite literally, been blessed to view perfection. Instead of words, he settled on delicately poking the sweet indent of Curly’s cheek. 

One last, lingering, almost sad brush of lips and Curly pulled away, clutching the slip of paper as if it was his lifeline- the only thing that was keeping his heart from beating its way out of his chest and into Louis' hands. He glanced over his shoulder [coy and utterly adorable in a way that Louis was sure he hadn't meant to be] as he exited the bathroom. One megawatt smile later, barely comprehensible to Louis, and he was gone. 

\-- 

Summer of 2010, an almost-nineteen year old Louis Tomlinson stood in the blistering heat of a parking lot outside of a studio in Manchester. He had finally gotten the courage [or, he should note, that his _mother_ had found out about his want to audition] to go out for the X Factor. Louis was not someone to be nervous, but he couldn't deny that he was fumbling with his own fingers. Pulling, tugging, cracking his knuckles, rubbing his nails over the palms of his hands. His mum snapped at him- in a loving manner, he was sure- to quit, that he was worrying himself over nothing. 

She had tonnes more faith in her son than he had in himself. 

"I have to piss again," he swore to her, trying to sound calmer than he actually felt. Of course, he failed in that respect. He wasn't expecting to pass, really. His mum knew him better than anyone else in the world. 

"Do you think I'm going to run out of line on you? Go quickly." Secretly, she was better at playing Louis' game than he was. Her stomach was twisting in knots but she was having to delicately hide a grin, her boy was not only old enough to chase his dreams, but she knew that whatever goal he was attempting to reach, he would. On the day he was born, she prayed that her firstborn would set the way for greatness. 

It seemed she had been answered. 

Pecking his mum on the cheek, Louis ducked under the chains blocking off each twist of the line. Dozens of people groaned as Louis made his way past them, cutting between them as quickly as he could manage. His bladder stabbed at his pelvis, but he had just cut to take a piss twenty minutes ago. Nervousness. So foreign; he wasn't sure he'd ever get used to it. 

Had he known then what he knows now, he's not sure if he would change anything. Just like in London, the way the wind blew him into a certain Starbucks [oh, how could he forget that lovely day, topped off with the concert of his life], he just happened to choose the "right" bathroom. 

Fate had a funny way of dealing cards, placing people in certain situations at specific times. 

Louis breathed out a heavy sigh of relief as he reached the toilets. Away from the steady hum of the crowd, he allowed himself to piss in peace. The only moment's peace he had gotten since his mum had found the flyer in his room and relentlessly questioned him about auditioning. She knew, of course, that he worked with a friend of his to put songs on YouTube. He hadn't received a massive following, of course, but there were people who enjoyed hearing him cover songs. Besides, he had loved singing, so what was the problem? 

The biggest problem he had with the X Factor was all the cookie-cutter-- 

"Oops!" 

He heard the voice before registering exactly what had happened. Dick still in hand, Louis' head snapped to see who had just come into the loo. Breathing stopped, time stopped; the only tell-tale sign that life hadn't literally frozen was a small, damp curl that fell into the line of vision of a stunning green eye. 

If he hadn't caught himself in his fly as he zipped [which burned like a _motherfucker_ and brought clarity to his senses], he would have sworn up and down and backwards and sideways what he was experiencing was a dream. Even now, he doesn't see how it's possible, how the cards that Fate dealt played exactly to what he had held tight to a year and a half later [without a call; his number, he would find out later, was lost unexpectedly, accidentally, and tragically]. 

There, in the doorway to the bathroom on a parking lot in Manchester, almost 264 kilometres away from the spot where they first met, was Louis' eternally favourite conquest: Curly. 

The boy had lost a bit of the baby fat round his middle, just as Louis anticipated he would, and he couldn't exactly see the dimples that had captured his heart, but he knew [oh, he _knew_ ] they were hiding there somewhere between the look of confusion and disbelief. He was taller, leaner, but still that same boy who had been wrapped in Louis' scarf, begging with those green eyes. And now, now Louis had heard him speak. A deeper voice than he would've guessed [maybe his cracking chords had finally settled on a gruff tone that would surely break a million hearts one day], but sexier than he ever could have conjured. 

Both of them were afraid to move, afraid of what exactly the consequences of this meeting were. But they knew, without speaking, just how much the other was simultaneously grateful and surprised. It was like the span of time, those aching nights and dozens of turned-down dates, didn't happen. Sure, Curly's hair was a little shorter [freshly cut?], Louis' was a bit shaggier, their bodies older, their minds more mature, but very much the same as they were in that stall in London. [Later, in one of their concerts, "Curly" would reveal that he was in London for the very concert that Louis was there for, another coincidence in their relationship that couldn't be answered with solidarity.] 

Louis was the first to crack a smile, beaming to this boy that he had all but fallen effortlessly in love with, but Curly was the first to move, a step toward him. A monumental step in their lives, but an easy decision to make nonetheless. 

It was utterly clear to both of them [and if it wasn't at that moment, it would be as they progressed] that they were meant to be. Star-crossed lovers in the very essence of the phrase. 

And Louis took in the scent of his found conquest, and let out a breathy, eager: 

"Hi."


End file.
